Remember Me Like This
by clamjam
Summary: On the night in sixth year when Draco helps the Death Eaters get into the castle, Harry remembers how they rowed earlier and blames himself. Oneshot, 1st person in Harry's POV. HarryDraco slash.


**Author notes: This was a secret fic! Boy, did I pull one over on you guys. Anyway, I'm working on a much longer story right now and I have about seventeen million betas. The beta thing is beside the point, though. The point is, I just wrote this and I really wanted to post it. And I didn't have any betas or anything. I don't think anybody's seen this, actually. Don't kill me. wince Anyway, It's just a one-shot, so this is all of it (yes, Liz, this is all). Umm…read and if you like it, review! Reviews are my favorite. Yessir. Oh, and I own nothing of this. J.K. Rowling can even have these author notes.  
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**Remember Me Like This**

I wonder what I could have done differently. I know it's my fault as I watch him run with Snape out those gates. I know that the last time I had been with him we had a row, and because of that he was vengeful enough to complete the job.

Well, almost. Snape had put the finishing touches on.

But I remember how we had shouted…it was over something stupid, pointless, and we both knew it as it started. But then it escalated, and suddenly it was like I was the Order of the Phoenix's side and Draco was Voldemort's side and we were just…screaming. Every thought I'd ever had against evil and darkness and everything Voldemort and his followers stood for was pouring out of me and I couldn't stop it. And he was yelling everything he had ever hated about good and lightness and the side I fought for.

I can't shake that memory now that's he's suddenly gone…

I had thrown the proverbial first punch, I remember. "Draco, you left your shirt in my dorm again last night."

"Oh!" He blushed, and I thought he was so sweet and I felt bad for nagging. "Sorry…"

But then I kept talking. Why the fuck did I keep talking? "Yeah, but my mates keep finding them, and so do Nearly Headless Nick and McGonagall when they do their inspections."

"Oh…" He blushed deeper. "Sorry, Harry…are we in trouble?"

"No, but it's embarrassing, you know." Why did I say that? I can't believe I would say that. And he was so apologetic.

He said something quietly, something I don't remember, nothing important, and then I did it. God, I was stupid.

"Look, love—" and there was that word, that god damn word— "maybe we shouldn't have these little…er, sleepovers so often." I'd started it. God, I'd started it. "You know, the teachers are suspicious…leaving our clothes lying around, and sneaking off to each others' dorms with bottles of lube in our pockets…I dunno."

He had flushed even more, if that was possible for his pale face, and said, "But that was your bottle." His voice had been sort of cooler now.

"Well, maybe you should come to my dorm sometimes! And you can bring your own fucking lube!"

"No pun intended," he had said darkly. I flushed, grinning awkwardly, but he hadn't been smiling. At all. He's scary when he's mad, Draco is. And I had just been skimming the surface when it came to Draco being angry.

"I'd get in trouble," I muttered lamely.

"You've got your cloak." He had sounded hurt now, and still angry, and I should have shut up right then. Hindsight's a bitch, eh? "And I always come to your dorm without any cloak or anything."

I had shrugged, turning away.

"But then—" and now his voice was downright cold at my stupid, stupid indifference— "you wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation as Dumbledore's golden boy, would you?"

"I—what's that got to do with it?" I had turned, frowning.

"By sleeping with slime like me. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor, together? Oh, unthinkable!" He had been mocking, but not the playful way he usually did when we were alone together in my dorm, curtains drawn, with silencing charms—but I couldn't think about those happy hours right now. Because right now we were having a fight, and we both knew it. But damned if we knew how bad it would turn out to be in the end.

I glared. "You know full well I—"

"Oh, shut up, Harry," he had shouted angrily. He's awful when he's mad. Scary. It's his father in him. "You and I both know that Dumbledore favors you and your oh-so-noble House, and that we Slytherins are just shit on the bottom of his stupid boot because of…well, certain factors of our history."

"You mean like how your House produced Lord Voldemort and all his followers?" I had shot scathingly. I'm terrible…Merlin, I'll never forgive myself.

He flushed still deeper, but held his ground. "Very good, Harry. That _is_ what I was referring to. A+."

We had both been crimson in the face now, glaring at each other and yelling from opposite sides of the empty common room. I reminded me of the fight Ron and Hermione had had back in fourth year…the one where they had been cool and formal to each other for weeks afterwards…but somehow I didn't feel like this was going to turn out as happily.

"You and Dumbledore and the stupid Order of the Phoenix—"

"Oh, is that what is this is about? Well, I know who your lot—"

Gods, it was awful. Painful to think about even now. He said some terrible things. And I said some terrible things. Worse than him, I expect. And if you wanted to side with me, I suppose you could say that he started it with his comment about Dumbledore, but in all seriousness, you'd be wrong. It was me. I provoked him because I asked him something stupid and petty and selfish—Merlin, so selfish—and if I had another chance I'd never in a million years have said anything of the sort. And right now none of this madness would have happened, and we'd probably be together in my bed or his bed, curled up and frightened while I protected him from Snape and he told me everything about how he had almost finished fixing the cabinet, almost, and without me he probably would have done and he was so, so sorry. And I would tell him that it was OK, that he didn't and they couldn't get in and everything was fine. And if it had been like that, none of this would have happened and…and Dumbledore would still be alive.

Merlin, what a fucking fool I was. And still am, for letting him go.

_I let him go._

And I remember the last thing he said to me before he ran out of the common room (forgetting his shirt):

"Goodbye, Harry. And I hope you remember me like this."

The next time I see him he's leading the Death Eaters in an attack against Hogwarts, pointing his wand shakily at Dumbledore, Dissapparating beyond the gates while I struggled with…with everything, lying on the ground, watching them in hatred and panic.

And the worst part is…I do remember him like that.

I remember him just the way he told me, flushed and proud and angry and spiteful, running from me.

And now all I can think about is that I wish, Gods, I wish he had taken his god damn shirt.

Then I wouldn't have to think about how much I loved his smell.

_Fin_


End file.
